Fractured Prism
by ninamonkey
Summary: Ororo flees the X-Mansion to aid a former comrade in arms, but helping him means abandoning the X-Men. *Ch.7--NEW!*
1. Introduction

_AN: This is a little story that's been going through my head a while. Don't know where it's going, but we'll see at the end of the ride...the Ororo in this story is an amalgamation of three universes: Ultimate, movieverse, and comicverse. I had fun putting her makeup together, only because we *don't* see much of her personality in the movie. I figured, hey, this is as good a story as any to try the combo. We'll see if it worked, eh?_

**Fractured Prism**

_Secrets Foretold - Introduction _

Ororo Munroe had a small confession: She hated history. She taught it, she made sure her students knew it, but when it came right down to it, she detested how the past reclaimed its own; how the past refused to stay buried, where no one could touch it. Her dark lips tightened. It twisted present circumstances until nothing survived--nothing but grief and ash. It was both liar and thief. No, that wasn't necessarily true. _Her_ life was the lie, _this_ history brought dark memories. This particular piece mocked her as bluntly as a shattered mirror. She tapped a slim postcard against the polished oak table, unaware how the staccato sound caused her teammates to turn. 

"Storm...? Question?" 

The war room lights had been dimmed for Scott's three dimensional miniature, and she was grateful how the shadows hid the frustration on her face. Her eyes flitted across the members of her team surrounding the huge oak table, weighing the concerned eyes turned to her. Even Logan, who had recently returned to their family with a new, feral hardness, wore his deepest scowl. 

"I apologize, Cyclops." _Focus, Ororo_. She shook herself. _Mock battle strategies. Pay attention. They are watching you, you must hold yourself together. _She would have been in serious trouble had it been the real thing. Again, she praised the lights that hid the small, embarrassed flush in her dark cheeks. "No. I have no questions. Please continue." 

Scott almost smiled. "I know these strategy sessions can be boring as hell, but it doesn't hurt to keep on our toes." He pressed a few buttons and the table surface changed. Tiny, sharp crystals splintered, fell, and emerged reborn into the shape of a small warehouse. "Let's change the scene a little. Let's say the assailant is unarmed, and..." 

Ororo tuned out Scott's gentle drone and rolled the postcard in her slim fingers. For the eighth time in five minutes she studied the florid, masculine script on the other side of an innocuous Parisian street scene: _Stuck in Tokyo_. She knew exactly who it was from, and she didn't like it. She didn't like that he knew exactly where she was, and that his card put the entire school in jeopardy. 

"Would you excuse me?" Ororo said suddenly, rising. Jean put a cautious hand on her arm. _You okay?_ She mouthed. 

Ororo smiled and nodded. She lied easily, since her mental defenses were strong, and Jean knew well enough not to pry. "Just a headache." She dismissed her friends with a nod. "Please accept my apologies, Scott, while I get some aspirin." 

They trusted her. Why would they have any reason to doubt her? Without waiting for a response, she exited the room with a regal grace she did not feel and decided she _had_ to leave her family, regardless of the unfinished school year. She wouldn't tell anyone—she feared it, in case they wanted to help. But it wasn't their problem, and she couldn't explain her secrets. 

She hurried to her attic loft, heedless of the strange looks some of the students gave. "Where's the fire, Ms. Munroe?" Someone joked. John Allerdyce, she thought briefly, but she didn't turn to acknowledge him. Running in the halls? How very undignified. How very un-goddesslike. But this was the woman no one knew, and she intended to keep it that way. 

"Shoes, pants, shirts..." Ororo rifled through her closet, nervously grabbing a handful of clothes and throwing them in a duffle bag, wondering if she shouldn't just bring her purse and buy a new wardrobe when she arrived. Dare she fly on her own power? She shook her head. She would only fly as far as the airport, to cover her tracks. But if anyone became suspicious, Professor Xavier might try Cerebro to locate her. It would be better if she did not use her power. It would be too easy to find her. 

_Does it satisfy you to be so deceitful?_ her mind raged. She slung the duffle bag over her shoulder, and added toiletries, her passport, and cash. She flung back the loft windows, feeling the wind tease her like a chanting schoolchild. _After they've shown you nothing but love and honesty, after you have been loved in return, you dare betray your family? _

"I must. I'm sorry, Professor," she whispered, and hot tears stung her eyes. She stiffened, preventing the moisture from tumbling down her cheeks, and let the harsh, north wind steal her from her home. 


	2. On the Hunt

It wasn't often that Charles Xavier wished for the use of his legs, or that he pitied himself for not having the ability to walk or run. But sometimes, like now, he wished for legs so he could pace and think through his thoughts with long, careful strides, to eliminate the tension in his body. Today he had to rely on his intellect--which alone was formidable, but it could not relieve his anxiety. He had to trust his fingers for that. 

The professor weaved his fingers and clasped his hands together, as if making a fist. _Why run_, _child? Why are you running? _

His office door swung open, and Scott and Jean entered, still in uniform. He stared at both with hopeful eyes, despite already knowing the truth. "Anything?" 

Scott shook his head and angrily yanked his leather gloves from his hands "We searched Tokyo, checked every weather anomaly--hell, we even checked Paris on the way back, just in case. Nothing." 

"I still don't understand, Professor. What is she _doing_?" Scott felt Jean's fury and frustration in their mindlink, and it started giving him a headache. He didn't blame her, though. His thoughts weren't too friendly, either. 

"Something stupid," Scott spat unkindly. 

"Or something desperate," Xavier said softly. 

"But what would she have to be desperate _about_?" 

Xavier fondled the postcard, the one Ororo abandoned on her dresser in her haste, two days ago. He had caught a flash of angst from her then, but only pursued it enough to ask if she were all right. Efficiently, coldly--without hint of anything to reveal her plan--she cheerfully lied to him. She was one of the few who could, and he believed her. Despite his constant mental cries he hadn't heard from her since. 

"She's alone. Believes she cannot trust us," Xavier whispered. His fingers roamed the card lightly, as if revealing a hidden truth by touch. His blue eyes became lost in a memory. "She's quite the character," he amended, lips quirking in a slight smile. "Quite the little thief." 

He sighed. "I do not think she's doing anything illegal, although her actions border on it. I think...I think it might be best to let her go, until she's ready to return to us." 

"Professor--" 

He held up a hand. "She needs her freedom, Scott. She needs to work through this problem on her own. If we constantly chase after her we could do more harm and she may never return." He worked the card, thumbing the rough edges with a delicate care. Paris? Perhaps. Perhaps not... 

Jean's eyes narrowed as she searched her mentor's face. "No. There's more to it than that. What aren't you telling us?" 

"Nothing you don't already know," Xavier said cryptically. His eyes danced, whether from anger or amusement, Jean couldn't tell. "Ororo is at a crossroads. Her next decisions should be of her choosing, not of ours. I suggest, for the sake of the school, that one of you either brush up on your historical skills, or begin looking for an interim history professor. She might be gone for quite some time." 

He dismissed them coldly, without preamble, and they weren't quite sure how to take his decision. For several seconds each made a move to speak or counter his decision, but the protests died on their lips as his gaze left them and focused on the front window. They turned quietly away, not understanding but doing what he asked--when Charles Xavier made up his mind, it did little good to argue with him. Jean exited first, her feelings betrayed by her stiff steps. Scott was on her heels. 

"Oh, and Scott." Scott paused his hand on the doorframe, jaw clenched, unable to look at his surrogate father. _How can you leave her like that_, his mind shot out; Xavier ignored him. "Call Logan in, would you? It's time he earned his keep around the school." 

The Professor's tone was light, joking even, but Scott couldn't hold back the bitterness in his voice. "As you wish, _Professor_." 

He slammed the door back and the figure roaming the hall glanced at him darkly. Scott's jaw tightened. "Where's Jean?" 

Logan shrugged and lit a cigar. "None of my business." 

Scott alternated on the balls of his feet, and Logan smirked at the nervous gesture. "You and Jeannie have a fight? Finally had enough of ya, huh?" 

"He wants to see you," Scott spat. He strode towards the elevator that took its passengers to the lower levels, to the Danger Room. "Maybe you can convince him that what we did wasn't a colossal waste of his precious time." 

Wolverine raised an eyebrow. "This about Ororo?" 

"Sure as hell ain't about the Easter Bunny," Scott said tightly, as the elevator doors slammed shut. 

Logan's eyes darkened. He went with Scott and Jean's little witch hunt, hoping for some action--either physical, or, he thought playfully, with Jean--but they had gone five non-stop days of cold trails and almost no sleep. Their nerves were fried, and those two still had to teach and make things look as if "everything was fine" so the kids wouldn't get nervous. For some reason, that bothered him. If they were going to go after Ororo, they shouldn't give up without a damn good reason. He tromped into Xavier's office, expecting a stiff-necked stubborn old jackass, and was surprised by a broken man hunched over his desk. 

"Logan." 

"Chuck," Logan said quietly. He sat leadenly in a wooden chair that creaked beneath him, due to his heavy metal skeleton and relentlessly puffed his cigar; Xavier didn't rebuke him. "What's the story? Was the dick right? We do all that travelin' for nothin'?" 

"Not necessarily," the Professor sighed. He folded his hands and stared at his knuckles, and Logan noticed a subtle change in his pheromones. Something he wasn't too sure he liked. 

"You're goin' behind One-Eye and Red's back." 

Xavier looked up quickly, surprised that Logan had caught on as easily as he had. "More or less. I don't want them to know what I'm going to ask of you." 

Logan massaged his cigar between his fingers, watching the ember glow brightly. He snuffed it suddenly and winced from the heat, watching the small wound on his thumb and forefinger instantly heal. "What makes you so sure I'm gonna say 'yes?'" 

"Because you're a man of action," Xavier said simply. "And you haven't had time to exercise your skills in some time. Because Alkali Lake was a failure. And because, quite simply, you're bored." 

Logan laughed out loud, genuinely pleased. "Can't say you're off the mark there, Chuck." His face darkened slightly. "Sometimes I ain't inta playin' Teacher's Pet or actin' nice." 

"Understood." Xavier leaned back in his chair with a sigh and lay his steepled fingers to his lips. "What I am about to tell you is in strictest confidence. I shouldn't be saying anything at all, but for the circumstances. And the loophole." 

"Loophole? What kinda loophole?" 

A small smile shadowed his features. "Ororo begged me never to tell anyone at the mansion her past secrets--especially Scott and Jean. She didn't think they would understand. A mutant was one thing. Her past...well. Let's just say that she remains rather standoffish for a reason." 

"So, since I wasn't here at the time--" 

"Exactly. I feel I can tell you, since you weren't part of the original bargain." 

"Sneaky bastard." 

Xavier's eyes twinkled, but he didn't disagree. "She would hate that I told you, but I think you of all people would understand." 

"Due to my 'colorful' past, Chuck?" Wolverine smirked. "What's she done that's got 'er runnin' so bad that you need me to get 'er back?" 

"She has a criminal history, Logan. Carjacking, theft, breaking and entering…attempted manslaughter. Attempted murder." 

Logan choked back a laugh. "You're kiddin' me, right?" 

"No, I'm not," Xavier said seriously. His eyes turned hard. "When the police contacted the Institute, it was because they did not have the facilities to incarcerate such a dangerous sixteen-year-old. They hoped I could do something to hold her, until they could find suitable arrangements. Or at the very least they hoped I could find a way to dampen her powers so they could force her to serve her jail sentences peacefully. When they brought her to me, she was little better than a temperamental street rat." 

Logan shook his head. "An' you 'reformed' the little hellion." 

"No," he said, disagreeing sharply. "She reformed herself. Once she saw that she wasn't alone, that there were others like her, we began working on her temper--and her powers, of course. She barely spoke to anyone in the beginning, so great was her fear of returning to jail. When she did, she pretended not to know English well enough, and hid behind an imperious, untouchable persona. But the juvenile courts were all too happy to rid themselves of her, and we had a sympathetic enough judge who put her on more or less permanent probation, on the condition that she stay at the Institute as my ward." 

"An' skipped hard time in the deal. Pretty lucky for you, Chuck. If she'd met up with the wrong people first--" 

Xavier sighed deeply. "I shudder to think what would have happened, had Erik found her. That would have been tragic, to say the least." 

"At least," Wolverine echoed. He took out another cigar and carefully lit it. "So you think she's back inta her shady deals, an' ya want me to drag her sorry ass back home. Right?" 

"Well, I wouldn't have put it in such eloquent terms. But yes, more or less. But _carefully_, Logan," he said softly. "You should track her, but not scare her. Find out what she's up to. See if you can convince her to return of her own free will. Let her know--" his voice caught. "Let her know that I still care deeply about her, no matter what she feels she's done. That she's still welcome to return, no matter what." 

Wolverine stood, and popped his neck sharply. The sound echoed through the office like a thunderclap. "I'll do what I can. Can't say that bein' yer fetchit bitch's what I had in mind, but hell, if there's a fight on the end of it I won't care." 

Xavier's smile faltered a little. "Hopefully there won't be too much of a struggle. For your sake." He scribbled on a sticky note and handed it to Logan. "Here. That's all I have. It's a start, anyway." 

Logan studied the note. "Louisiana? Then what was all that Tokyo and Paris shit about?" 

"A ruse, probably. But I imagine your search should begin near or around the French Quarter. That's where the police last found her. My guess is that any business dealings she had may pick up thereabouts." 

Wolverine nodded solemnly and crumpled the paper in his fingers. "You sure 'bout not lettin' the Wonder Twins in on this one, Chuck?" 

"Who, Scott and Jean? Yes." He rubbed his temple, as if stilling a headache. "Right now, Ororo would never accept it. Later, perhaps. But not now." 

"Your funeral." 

Logan rubbed the paper in his fingers, deep in thought. He pretended like he didn't care one way or the other, but he did. This was his family now, the only family he had. If one of 'em was going through a hard enough time to upset the others, well, something had to be done about it. The balance had to be reset, for everyone's sake. This little problem of Storm's would go away--one way, or another. 


	3. Wonderland

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_AN: Believe me, I'm as eager as you are to see where this story's headed. Dang, if it ain't the muse on *fire*. To my dear 'shippers, whether Remy/Ro or Logan/Ro, I ain't sure where this is headed, so hang on tight. It's gonna be a bumpy ride..._

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**Wonderland**

Ororo never forgot her last 'Nawlins' Mardi Gras--it was the last time she felt free to justify her illegal actions by vilifying the human race. She _had_ felt superior to homo sapiens. She felt annoyed by their idiocy and by their weakness. Their stupidity to prance around half-naked for cheap plastic beads while toppling in their own vomit. It was a joy to take their money. A fitting penance for them being so dammed stupid and uncaring. They deserved it, and she showed no mercy towards them. 

A tiny tornado blew a stack of fetid fliers and confetti past Ororo's feet. The air stank of refuse and grenadine, whisky and piss--and she hated that the smell thrilled her. _That was then_, she mused quietly. _This is another time. Another me. _

_Is it?_ Her mind countered sharply and she didn't have enough energy to argue with it. She left her family, her home. And for what? For a stupid postcard from a friend she hadn't seen in nearly a decade? She had been quietly searching for him for a week but the influx of crowds and noise and claustrophobic nonsense hampered her, and she often retreated to the safety of an overpriced hotel just to breathe again. She couldn't deny that deep inside she was still that scared, imperious brat. Otherwise, she would not have come. That was the only reason. 

Or was it? 

Another frosty chill clung to her shoulders and forced her to hug her duster close to her chest. She rarely felt cold but this feeling was of a deeper frost, one from inside her body. The old memories assaulted her and pinned her against the scrollwork storefronts, kissed her roughly against the streetlamps, grabbed her and straddled her in the dank alleys of the Red Light district. She bravely stood against the memories but her own conscience battled her now. Leaving was a mistake. Coming was a mistake. She felt the chill because the underworld was calling to her and...Blast. She _missed_ it. 

"Damn you," she muttered aloud. "Damn you and our shitty loyalties to each other." 

Her lip quirked sadly. Oh, yes. You can take the girl from the street...

The wind howled and she wasn't entirely sure if it wasn't of her own making. The streets were desolate, empty, and cruel at the rather late 8am hour. This was the morning after Mardi Gras where no one moved, save for the drunkards waking from their bourbon-induced slumbers wondering where their partners went and where they parked their car and where their hotel was. In the distance, Ororo heard the gentle tap of the policemen's nightsticks as they rattled the dark places and commanded the once possessed to return to their calm, boring routines. Businesses didn't open until late. Everyone was hungover. Even teetotalers felt the sudden release of everyone's tension at once, and remained in bed complaining of headaches and sick stomachs. 

The wind screamed again and Ororo started, hearing it whisper her name. She heard voices, scattered bits of conversation. _Nawlins is ours, Stormy, it said, nibbling her ear, sending decadent warmth through her cheeks. You an' me, we got 'em on the run. Time for de street rats to live a little, eh?_

She shook the dialogue from her head. It was smooth as velvet, rich as chocolate. Covered her in security and touched a part of her that no one knew about. Thrilled her. Fascinated her. Tempted her.

It was the devil himself. And she was returning to him. 

"Damn you, _damn you_!" 

Her voice echoed and bounced off the narrow streets. A deep roll of thunder and a streak of lightning punctuated her anger. Control? She didn't have it here. Why did she ever come? How foolish was she? She should return, go right back home, beg forgiveness, and-- 

An odd, hot feeling tickled the back of her neck like the caressing lips of a new lover. She stopped and looked sharply ahead, seeing a post-Mardi Gras reveler lean half-drunkenly against a lamp post while staring directly at her. Although his body was undeniably masculine and taut in all the right places, something was wrong with his head. She tentatively approached and saw the reason: A mask covered his face. A cheap plastic children's mask that looked like a black cat from a child's reading primer. Her feet froze to the pavement and she hesitated but the man noticed her paused steps. He lifted his mask partway--just enough to expose a chiseled, whiskered jaw--and took a long drink from a pint bottle hidden in his pocket.

The action woke Ororo enough to take another slow pace forward but the man saw her, snapped his mask back in place, and rolled off the lamppost until his body paralleled its rigid straightness. 

Ororo's lips formed the name she hadn't spoken in years. The spell that rooted her feet to the ground broke and her steps quickened, but the man didn't want that. He whipped away from her while his black duster floated about his body like unfurled wings and he crossed the street before she was too close. She followed, not quite understanding this strange game of Follow the Leader, but felt frustrated that he wouldn't let her approach. 

"Don't--I won't hurt you," she said quietly. She nervously checked her shoulder, absently looking for police and other assorted officers of the court. Not to seek their aid, but hoping no one followed. 

"Wait!" 

But his pace had increased and she found it difficult to keep up with his long strides without using her mutant power. She could call the wind to her, seeing how there were few people about, but she was afraid now. Afraid of being caught by people worse than officers and mutant-haters. She began jogging towards him, just as he dipped behind a dilapidated building, but slowed when she realized where he'd taken her. These were the places not even drunkards came, where the voodoo priestesses and crime bosses performed the darkest of ceremonies. Evil surrounded these walls, these blocks, and everyone stayed far away, fearful of the curse against them if they didn't. Her legs faltered but still she ran, following him deeper and deeper into the rabbit hole... 

Rounding the corner she stopped short. The small alley dead ended, protected by a tall, graying picket fence acting as sentry. There was no way out and yet her White Rabbit had disappeared, vanished. 

"No," she commanded. "You will _not_ escape me that easily." 

As if answering a slight breeze awakened a torn and dirty screen door with peeling pine green paint; the wind pumped it uselessly, slamming it against the building's side. The tainted smell of grease and potatoes accompanied each slam and made her stomach rumble, reminding her that her last meal had been two days ago, but she smiled slightly and approached on cat-like feet. The wind sent a strong force against her face, both beckoning and rebuffing her attempts to enter. She curled her fingers around the door and stilled another bang against the red brick building, but she found herself crossing the threshold, despite the warnings screaming at her in the back of her mind. She couldn't turn back now. Wouldn't. 

She stepped in just as darkness covered her softly and lovingly. Her eyes were adjusting to the dark when a huge wind gust suddenly swung the screen door in, trapping her inside and making her jump. For some reason she wasn't afraid, though she knew she should have been. She heard sounds to the right of her, of pots banging, and of laughter...hidden and cocooned, sweet and comforting. The smell of sweet potato pancakes and red beans and okra and hot spices tickled her senses and the smell lead her to a spillage of light between a half-closed door. She approached it and put her hand on the knob, noticing that the side door was covered in the same dark green peeling paint as the door on the outside. 

"Dang, girl, if dat ain't de hottest peppah in de bunch," someone yelled loudly. "G'head, put dat on de menu nex' time. Whoo-_eeee_, I like it like _dat_." 

More chuckles, more laughs. She stood transfixed by the doorjamb and saw a large gunmetal gray commercial stove covered in flames. Her breath caught until a female chef clad in an ivory apron scooted past her eyes and turned down the burner. 

"Emily--! What de hell you playin' at, chil'?" The chef shouted. "You t'inkin' o' burnin' down de _entiah_ kitchen b'fo de lunch crowd come, or you jus' stupid, neh?" 

Ororo giggled and the chef heard her. The woman turned, her face dark as midnight, and a scowl deepened the wrinkles on her prematurely aged face. "We ain't open yet," the woman grunted. "G'wan nah. Y'hear? _Tu parles Francais_?" The woman clucked her tongue at Ororo's blank stare. Yes, she understood French. But she could not move. Could not speak. "_Etranger foulle _," the chef muttered, but she ignored Ororo and went back to her oven. 

Ororo's heart hammered fast from the exchange and she stepped back from the hidden door, only to bump into a tall, muscular man whose darkness rivaled the woman's in the kitchen. She gasped involuntarily since she hadn't heard his approach, hadn't seen how he faded from the darkness and into the corridor. "You in de wrong place," he said quietly. His dark voice was warm, like the kitchen. "Go upstairs." 

He pointed around the corner where she could just make out the slant of old, creaky wood steps. "Thank you," she whispered, and he nodded to her as if a special secret was suddenly shared. Her feet padded soundlessly across the wooden corridor but despite her silence a few weak floorboards shot their alarm through the building, signaling her approach. At the bottom of the staircase another room--wide open this time, without doors to protect its occupants--presented round card tables beneath starched tablecloths, topped with dried flowers in reused salad dressing bottles. 

"Y'come back in anothah hour, girl," she heard to the side. She hadn't seen the woman setting the tables in the corner but the woman had apparently seen her, despite not glancing up from her chores. Silver flashed white beneath her ebon fingers as she carefully placed spoons, knives, and forks upon pristine napkins. "We got food for ya then." 

"I will," she promised, and she meant it. She was too hungry now. The only thing stopping her from staying was waiting for her upstairs. Or so she hoped. 

She placed her foot on each narrow stair carefully, wondering how old they were. No banister protected her but the weather-worn, grooved planks steadied her feet as if designed for her light steps. Each stair creaked under her weight but she enjoyed each minor thundershot since it reminded her of other times. These times. 

A cracked window met her at the top of the stair and a large teardrop crystal hung from its eaves, sending multicolored patterns against her face. She squinted a little from the light but saw enough through it to catch a shadow in the window pane--the shadow of something behind her. She quickly turned to her left and watched part of a dark jeaned leg and half a duster scurry into the third room. The second floor was tight and cramped, and nearly set off her claustrophobia with its smallness, and the games were suddenly making her dizzy. Her head swam as she slowly crept down the hallway, and she was glad for the small white banister that protected her from tumbling to the first floor. 

"I tire of this," she said, meaning her words as a threat. They sounded more like a frustrated moan in the back of her throat. "I will leave now, if you do not show yourself." 

Silence met her. Anger churned within her. He knew she would come, knew he would stay hidden and she would look for him. The same as when they were children. 

"Blast you, did you not--" 

She paused at the doorway and caught him poised and serene, beautiful and magnificent. The same as she left him long ago. He stood with his back towards her and with his hands clasped behind him, and stared from a bay window that edged forward to reveal a small, rickety balcony. The window was open and a gentle breeze blew the satin curtains back, wrapping him in a pale gauze of heraldic white. Her breath caught. Despite her reservations, her heart beat faster. Damn. He hadn't changed--she hadn't changed. His beauty was still legendary and she was falling for it all over again. 

"Chere," his voice purred. He still had not turned to face her. "Merci." 

"What do you want," she asked, when she had the courage to speak. She approached the room cautiously. She saw a rolltop desk inside, a bed wrapped in a white granny quilt, and a Victorian dresser but little else. "Why did you send that postcard? Why did you write 'Stuck in Tokyo' if you are not in any real danger?" 

"Oh, don't misunderstand me, chere. I wasn't jokin'. In fact, I'm in de biggest danger of m'life." 

His voice was deeper than she remembered it, even more hypnotic. Even more soothing. Her mouth went dry but she closed the gap between them until she was inches from his graceful, muscular back. 

"What danger?" 

"If I tell you, chere, you in it. No backin' out, no second guessin'. Can y'handle dat, Stormy?" 

"If I told you once," she whispered. Her hands came up to touch the mask and he turned slightly, letting her take the elastic over the back of his ears, letting her peel it off his face, exposing the beautiful, strong face covered in thick auburn hair and five o'clock shadow. Exposing those eyes, those beautiful devil eyes the color of hard, glittering rubies. The eyes that stared at her. Stared through her. 

"I've told you a hundred times. Don't call me Stormy." 

A wicked smirk tested the corners of his wide, angelic mouth. "You all grown up, padnat. You t'ink you ready for dis?" 

Ororo's mind whirled. No backing out, no second guessing. He was asking her to turn her back on ten years of good behavior. Ten years of family. Ten years of safety. Ten years of boredom. Ten years of hiding her true self and bottling her emotions in a pressure cooker of frustration. 

_Time for de street rats to live a little, eh? _

Her dark lips mimicked his smirk. "Goddess help me. I miss it." 

He laughed and picked her up, twirling her around the room. "Dat's my Stormy. Y'can take the brat off de streets--" 

"--but ya can't take de street off de brat," she responded, imitating his Cajun drawl. "In for a penny, in for a pound, Remy." 

"Yep. In f'r a penny, in f'r a pound." He put her back down and ran a gloved hand through her hair, then lightly kissed her forehead. "T'anks, Stormy. I appreciate it. You ain't gonna regret it." 

_I probably will_, a hidden part of her answered, but she swallowed the words. Instead she listened to the rush in her ears: _Life. Liberty...Freedom. _

This time, she thought, caressing Remy's cheek, the challenges looked beautiful. 


	4. Still Waters, Deep Waters

**Still Waters, Deep Waters**

**IV**

Mad? Wolverine wasn't mad. He was borderline _feral_. The whole damn city smelled like a New York City sewer, and there wasn't anywhere he could go to hide from the stench. He'd smelled backwater honky-tonks with a fresher scent than this place. 

"Don't this place ever stop _stinkin'_? Crap!" 

The bartender glared at him, but said nothing. Probably didn't think he should, considering that his customer just downed his seventh whisky and didn't show any signs of stopping. 

Logan was furious. He should've had Ororo by the scruff of her neck by now, hogtied to his bike and hightailin' it back to Xavier Central. Out of all of 'em, _she_ was supposed to be the one with goddamn common sense. All this runnin' away shit was for kids. He'd been chasing after her for three days but found he couldn't bear the decaying city smell longer than a few hours at a time. Worse, his senses had started getting _used_ to it, and everything had started tasting like donkey piss and bat guano. 

"It gets bettah, homme," the bartender said, shrugging. "De street cleanah's will be out all day, an' dey'll clean up de mess. It'll smell like de bayou in no time." 

"Great," Logan muttered. " From vomit reek to swamp pong. Whoopee." 

The bartender's eyes narrowed and he came a little too close for Logan's liking. "Den _why_," he grumbled darkly, "is you _heah_, shrimp boat?" 

Shrimp boat? _Shrimp boat?_ He was taller than this bayou bastard! 

A low, threatening noise rumbled deep in Logan's chest. "Don't piss me off, Okra. I ain't in the mood." 

"Lemme guess," the bartender said, leaning back. Okra wasn't backing down but at least he wasn't pressing his luck. Yet. "You heah 'cause you eithah lookin' for somebody, or somebody owe you money an' you wanna collect." 

"Maybe," Logan said. His grimace softened a little. "So? You know somethin' I don't?" 

"Mebee," Okra repeated. "But if I do, it gonna cost ya." 

"Huh," Logan muttered. His bottom lip pouted and his eyebrows shot to his scalp in a comically satisfied expression. "Well, doggone it, that seems mighty fair." 

Okra grinned. "I t'ink so." 

"You reckon?" 

Logan made a move to reach into his back pocket for cash. The bartender came in close--too close again--and Logan's feral features returned. He grabbed the bartender by the shirt and slammed his head on the counter, while a loud _shnikt _echoed across the bar. The few people around them suddenly stood, sending their chairs flying back and across the floor. Logan could hear them running in droves, either out the back door or the front. He probably didn't have much time 'til the police showed up but he'd be long gone by then. 

"Now you lissen, bub," Logan began, spitting his words from clenched teeth. The bartender tried struggling from beneath Logan's arm but his elbow effectively pinned him to the counter. "You lissen _good_, got me?" 

"You stupid, crazy, motherf--" 

"See this, cornpone?" Logan slammed his knuckles on the counter and impaled the bar with three adamantium spikes. "I ain't got time f'r games. You got answers? Well, I got questions. Start spillin' before I gut ya." 

"Shit--! All right, all right! Jus'...don' hurt me! Please?" 

"If it's good enough, maybe I won't." _Shlackt_. He let the bartender struggle from the bar, and ignored the man's contained fury. "Just tell me if you've seen somebody. A woman, about five foot six, dark skin--" 

"Dat describes half de femmes in Louisiana!" 

"I ain't finished!" Logan yelled back. "This one's special. She's got long white hair but she ain't that old. Mid- to late-20s." 

The bartender's look changed, and he was sweating bad enough that Logan could smell the truth from his pores. 

"Where is she," he growled. 

"I dunno who--" 

Wham! The bartender's head hit the bar with a sickening crack. "Answer me, asshole!" 

"Okay, okay! She been 'round, yeah! But she pro'lly ovah her head by naw!" 

Logan heard sirens in the distance. This was taking too damn long. He pressed harder on the man's neck. "That ain't good enough. Keep goin'." 

"Owww--! Fine, at least he'll kill ya, so dat's one good--OWW!" Okra hissed as Logan's let his elbow sink further into his neck. "_Shit_! She was lookin' fo' de Debble King! She asked 'bout 'im, and I tol' her not to bother with 'im 'cause she'd only get in trouble. She too pretty to stay 'round 'im. He'll eat her alive." 

_Devil King_? Figures. Sounded like something the bayou would cook up. "Where can I find this 'Devil' guy?" 

"You don't," Okra said, swallowing. His breath started coming in ragged hiccups. "He find you. You ask 'nough places, it'll get his attention. Den you end up _dead_." 

"Yeah? Well, I bet he won't find me that easy ta kill." 

He lifted his elbow off the bartender, and the man rubbed his neck cautiously. "Depends on who t'rows de firs' punch." 

"I'll manage. Thanks, Okra," Logan said. Although he'd already paid for the drinks, he threw twenty bucks on the counter and headed for the door. "I owe ya that much." 

"You gonna pay mah chiropractor, too?" 

"Don't push it," Logan said, slamming the door behind him. 

* * *

For Scott, the waiting thing had started to get old. Really old. In ten days they'd lost two teachers--well, one really. The other…who knows what the hell he did around the place, except keep the kids in line. He rubbed his shoulder absently. He was still angry with Xavier. It didn't make sense, and he didn't like puzzles. Yeah, he should trust the Professor, but this was too much. How could he... 

"Hon'?" 

"Hm?" 

"What're you thinking about?" 

Scott rolled over on his side and faced his fiancée. Although Jean was wide awake, she shouldn't have been. She should've been asleep since, until they found a replacement, they had doubled her workload. "Nothing interesting. You should sleep." 

"I would, if a certain someone didn't broadcast his thoughts so loud." 

He smirked. "Sorry. Guess it's kind of annoying, huh?" 

"Not really," she sighed, rolling back into her pillow. "Helps me practice my shielding." 

"Jerk," Scott laughed, hitting her with his pillow. 

Jean laughed at him, then suddenly sobered. "You're still upset about Charles' decision." 

Scott grabbed his pillow and lay it on his stomach while lightly running his fingers across the soft pillowcase. "In part. Ororo's always been private. That's her nature." 

"You're a lot like her there," Jean said softly. She ran a slim finger down his cheek. "You understand her a little more." 

Scott nodded and propped his elbow behind his head. "But sometimes she's too private. She doesn't go anywhere, doesn't do anything…but she's there for all of us. Helping us through our stupid little problems while playing Earth Mother. Even when the two of us talk privately, it's mostly about the kids, or about a new battle strategy." He sighed. "We've been friends for years, Jean, but I'm just now discovering that I really don't know her at all." 

He faced Jean again, his jaw taut. "No one should feel that alone." 

"It was her choice, Scott, and we respected that about her, gave her her privacy--" 

"But it doesn't make how we treated her _right_," Scott raged. He propped his back against the headboard as the emotions bubbled inside of him. "She was reaching out to us, somehow, but I didn't see it. She must have been. She wouldn't have left us, otherwise." 

"Scott," Jean said gently. She touched his arm. "It's not your fault." 

"Isn't it?" He rubbed his temples. "Out of all of us here she probably confides in me the most, and I didn't see it coming." 

"That's not true," Jean said, suddenly feeling indignant. "We've talked. We talk all the time." 

"Oh, really? When's the last time the two of you had a conversation beyond shopping, or restaurants, or movies? When's the last time you two had a girly 'heart-to-heart'? 

Jean opened her mouth to respond, but closed it slowly. "We've talked," she repeated, but her voice was a little less sure. "At least, I think we have." 

Scott growled and sunk lower into the bed. "You'd have to pry the secrets out of her head to get the real truth, Jean. There's a huge part of her life missing. She talks about Africa and she talks about the school but she conveniently skips over her pre-teen and late teen years, saying they weren't that important. Why is that, I wonder?" 

Jean smiled a little. "I think you're grabbing at straws. We've _all_ had bad childhoods and hard transitions." 

"Exactly. But we've all talked about ours, with Ororo being the exception. For some reason she thinks her teen years aren't worth sharing. Is it because they were that boring, or because they were somehow _worse_?" 

"What, worse than being locked up in a mental institution? Worse than being orphaned and abandoned in the foster care system?" Jean shrugged. "I dunno, Scott. Ororo just doesn't seem the type to be the 'bad girl.' She's too...I dunno, quiet, maybe." 

"Yeah, but they always say it's the quiet ones you have to watch out for," Scott muttered. He punched his pillow and lay back on his side. "Do you remember when she first came to the Institute?" 

Jean giggled. "Boy, did she have a temper on her. Any time anyone'd say _anything_ to her she'd get that evil little look on her face…then the windows would shake from thunder, and she'd stamp out of the room. You were lucky if she didn't shove you back with a gust of wind. Little _brat_." 

"Yeah," Scott said. He smiled slightly and sighed. "It's time to go looking for that little brat, Jean. I think she's in more trouble than the Professor's let on." 

Jean patted his leg. "My guess is Charles sent Logan on after her--it's too convenient that he disappeared, just when we got back. That's enough to put my mind at ease." 

"But is Logan _enough_? She knows him less that she knows us. She'd probably fry his ass rather than listen." 

"Don't sell either one of them short. She might listen to reason. She's a very reasonable person." 

"Reasonable," Scott snorted. "Like running away is reasonable?" 

"Point taken." Jean yawned and shut her eyes. "But she's a big girl and she can take of herself, Scott. I'm sure if she was in any _real_ danger that the Professor would've said something about it, and he would've had us go around the world and back to find her." 

"But who's taking care of her," Scott asked softly. He looked over at Jean, but she had already fallen back asleep. 

Scott sighed deeply and sunk back into his pillow. He didn't like mysteries. This one even less. _'Ro, you've been secretive for far too long_, he thought. _Whether you like it or not, I'm going to find out the truth about you before you end up hanging yourself. _

* * * 

The bayou was unseasonably warm, but still chilly by Louisiana standards. A gentle, humid heat hung in the air, punctuated by a slight chill when the breezes blew. Ororo knew the temperature was around sixty five degrees Fahrenheit, and she was never wrong when it came to gauging temperature. Sometimes the children would ask her what temperature it was going to be, and she'd let them know before the weatherman. Sometimes, she thought with a small smile, they would even place bets to see how close Ms. Munroe's predictions were to the weatherman's. She chided them for such things, but was secretly pleased. They loved her enough to play with her that way. 

_I'll probably never see them again, _she thought sadly. 

Remy's heavy boots tromped across the creaky deck, but she didn't turn around. His hands suddenly rubbed her shoulders and she gratefully sighed into his touch. 

"Ahh, you know right where it hurts," she whispered. 

"'Course, chere." He grinned and sat next to her, letting his feet dangle in the water below. "Dat's how I get away wit' my charm." 

She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. "You always were a bit of a knave." 

"More den you know, chere," he said. She frowned a little at his words, but he was grinning and she decided not to take his words too seriously. "De knave o' hearts. Should be my callin' card, next t'de king." 

"Remy." She had already made her decision, but was glad that he'd given her a day to think about what he asked. "I want to know what's going on. Tell me." 

He stared at her for a beat, then let his gaze wander over the mossy lake. "It's a long story, chere. Ugly, too." 

"I don't care. You took care of me, protected me more times than I could count. Saved me from a life of prostitution, from drugs…I told you then that if there was any way I could repay you, I would. I meant it." 

Remy let his breath out in a huff and grabbed a cigarette from his back pocket. "Chere, it ain't just 'bout payin' back ol' debts. Dis one…well, dis one's payin' me back, wit' _beaucoup_ interest. It's too risky." 

"You wouldn't have called me down here if it was too risky." 

"Yeah, mebee so," he said, lighting his cigarette. He waved out the match and threw it into the lake. "But you de only one I could t'ink of who had de strength fo' dis. Firepower-wise, I mean. Dere's a group of us, but, well, we ain't equipped fo' all of it. Mos'ly muscle an' hand-t'-hand stuff. We needed someone who could take on some o' de aerial assaults." 

Ororo raised her eyebrow, betraying some of her shock. "Aerial assaults? It sounds like you're breaking into a military compound." 

Remy started smiling. "Somet'in like dat." 

"Oh, for Goddess sakes," Ororo muttered. She shook her head disgustedly. "All you wanted me here for was to pull off another heist. That's _not_ mortal danger, Remy LeBeau. You had me worried for nothing." 

"Well..." he flicked his cigarette into the water and examined his fingers. A shy look overcame him, and Ororo's heart suddenly hurt. "Yes an' no. Dere's nother reason. It's also about dis fellah who help' me out a while back, jus' around de time de police took ya to dat fancy school up nort'." 

Her face flickered at the memory. "I always wondered why you never came to my rescue." 

"Yeah. Dere's a reason for dat too, chere. I...made a deal wit' a devil bigger den me." He sighed and looked lost, forlorn. Ororo touched his cheek and he grabbed her fingers; she was surprised to feel them trembling. It frightened her. 

He sighed, continuing. "About a mont' or so after you left, my powers started goin' haywire. Crazy shit, y'know? T'ings started blowin' up when I just thought about 'em. Got so I couldn't walk down de street without it bein' a major catastrophe. Finally I found an ol' juju man who promised he could help me. Fo' a price." 

"A juju man?" Ororo's lips quirked. "I'm surprised at you, Remy." 

"Hey, chere. Don't knock it. You know dat stuff's real down here." 

"He was probably just another mutant, like us." 

"Ohhh, chere, if _only_ he'd been 'jus' another mutant.'" He leaned back on the deck and folded his hands on his stomach. Ororo lay on his chest, and he moved his hands to stroke her hair. "Dis fella, he went by de name o' Essex. Said he had a way of makin' it so I could control my powers again." 

"Did it work?" 

"You could say dat," Remy muttered. "Yeah, it worked. But he's been workin' _me_ ever since. I've been his slave, goin' where he wants me to, killin' who he wants me to...worse shit den we ever did, chere." 

_Worse_? She thought. She couldn't imagine worse. "Remy..._we've_ killed people." 

"Yeah. But dey deserved it. Dis ain't like dat. Not like--" His voice caught. He ran a trembling hand over his sunglasses, lost in his own private hell. "I _have_ t'get outta dis one, chere. It's killin' me slow. I ain't got much of a conscience as it is. I keep doin' dis kinda work, and I ain't _never_ gonna be right in de head." 

She felt for his hand and squeezed it tight. "Remy, you can trust me. I'll help you, no matter what. We'll find a solution. I promise." 

He nodded. "I figure, dis be de _las'_ job I do for Essex. I told him I needed you, for de airpower. Sounded right, 'cause we didn't have anyone good 'nough fo' dat bit o' de plan. He let me call you here. He t'inks you part o' de team now, Stormy. You gotta play dat role t' de hilt, _hehn_? Dis man can't even _guess_ dat you're gonna help get me out. He'll kill ya as soon as look at ya." 

"I can be careful, Remy. I've been trained for covert work." 

His lips spread into a small grin. "Really? What the hell kinda classes do dey _teach_ up nort'?" 

"You'd be surprised, Remy." 

"Huh. I don't doubt it." His smile disappeared. "Chere, dis is your last out. I know I said if I told you, that'd be it, but I'm givin' you 'nother chance. Dis is serious shit, here. No playground games. One of us might get killed." 

"I understand the risks." She lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. "In for a penny, in for a pound, Remy." 

He smiled sadly. "_Tu es foulle_, you know dat, chere?" 

"I had a good teacher." 

"You _absolutely_ sure 'bout dis?" 

"Oh, _Goddess_," she said, exasperated. "Yes, yes! Leave it alone, already." 

"Ahh, _dere's_ my li'l Stormy's temper." 

Ororo rolled her eyes. "If I've told you once, I've told you hundreds of times--" 

"'Don't call me Stormy,'" Remy repeated with her. 

They laughed, and she enjoyed the pure freedom of laughter again. She enjoyed seeing Remy smile and was glad that he no longer looked so afraid...so sad. She brought him hope again and it made her heart light. Still, a part of her wished she had said something to Jean and Scott. If this Essex was powerful as Remy said--powerful enough to make even her best friend afraid--then he couldn't be underestimated. They could have used some extra help. But then she'd have to explain it all, and by now, the X-men couldn't possibly understand her actions. Maybe they didn't even want to. No, she would have to do this on her own. And maybe, just maybe, she and Remy could come out of this without anyone being the wiser.

* * * 

He watched them from a mile away, his eyes narrowing. When their fleeting words echoed across the lake and hit his sensitive ears, a dark rumble from the pit of hell churned deep in his chest. This wasn't good news. Not at all. And something had to be done about it before the traitor got out of hand.

_AN: Personally, I agree with Minisinoo's assessment of movieverse Jean and her relationship w/'Ro (see Min's excellent "Accidental Interception of Fate" if you're a fan of movieverse Scott & Jean: www.greymalkinlane.com/min/). So if you feel 'Ro & Jean's relationship seems somewhat 'stilted' go blame Min for the inspiration. ;-) _

_AN2: I'm just between jobs at the moment, and I've got enough free time right now to post quickly. ;-) But that might change in the next few days, so if these updates start coming weekly (or later) you'll know why… _


	5. Whispers in Thunder

***********************

_AN: Just finished the most demanding contract job of my life. Who-hooo! Let's celebrate the victory with a new chapter update..._

***********************

**Whispers in Thunder**

"All right," Scott yelled over the bell, "for homework, read over chapters three and four and do the odd problems on page 112 and 116. I'll be collecting it on Monday." 

Scott's lip quirked at the collective groans with accompanying shuffles of chairs. _Yeah, they hate it,_ he thought, alphabetizing the recent homework stack on the corner of his desk, _but they're going to learn it whether they like it or not._ The trigonometry would help them gain control over their powers. That was the real reason why he pressed his students so hard.

He caught Rebecca's disgusted grunt in the far right corner of the room but didn't glance up. Even though she hated his class and usually left muttering something unpleasant thinking he never heard her, Scott refused to acknowledge her backtalk. Instead, he used her attitude to press her harder in class--which she hated even more. He hoped that she'd figure it out one day, but apparently today wasn't it. "Blame Ms. Munroe," Rebecca grumbled to her friend. "With her out, 'Beamer' tripled our homework. Shoot. It ain't like we got _other_ classes, or something."

"I'm _sayin_--! Why can't they figure it out that we've got lives?"

"You know it. They can't see past their b..."

Dionne's words faded as the girls filtered out the rear door. Scott frowned slightly. The kids thought 'Ro was away on a personal emergency, which was half-true, but he still didn't like lying to them. Scott hoped he wouldn't have to for much longer.

"Um…You asked to see me after class, Mr. Summers?" 

His mind fought to think of another way. _Any_ other way. Kitty Pryde waited with him, nervously switching the heavy textbooks in her arms and chewing her lip. Well, it wasn't like anyone ever accused him of having too _much_ tact. He sighed, scratching his left cheek. 

"Ms. Pryde, what can you tell me about hacking?" 

Her eyes grew huge. "I, um…well--" She fumbled with her math book and dropped it. "Uh…" 

Scott's grim scowl softened into a gentle smirk as he picked her textbook from the floor. "Guess that answers my first question. And I'm guessing both you and Mr. Ramsey know who vandalized the corporate FOH website, last week."

The girl's face blazed scarlet and Scott almost hated himself for putting her through the agony. Almost. "That answers the second half of my question." 

He held up a hand before she fainted on him. "Just make sure you don't do it again, okay? I'd hate to have them trace that nonsense back to the school. We could catch a lot of heat from it." 

"Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Summers," she said quickly. "Doug and I cooked up a special cloak that—" 

She winced and put her fingers to her lips. If he wasn't sure before, he sure was now. 

Scott chuckled. "Like I said, Kitty, don't worry about it Just don't hack into any more private websites, all right? However--" He scratched his chin cautiously. The professor had wanted him to do this anyway, so it wasn't _entirely_ deceitful, but still…"Well, I'd like to ask you a favor, if you've got time." 

"A…a favor, Mr. Summers?" 

He sat casually on the edge of his desk and she sat across from him, at full attention. He might have laughed at her military-straight posture had the situation been less serious. "I want to make sure we've got enough security to protect the school, Kitty. We don't need anyone hacking into our private files. _And_," he said, smirking, "I want to see exactly how you do what you do so I'll know what to look for next time. Are you willing to help me out?"

A zealous grin spread across her features. "You're giving me permission to hack into the school's server?" 

"Yep. If you haven't already." 

She folded her arms, offended. "Of course not! What kind of geek do you take me for? I wouldn't do that. Besides…it'd be too easy to trace." 

"Ahhhh, so _that's_ the real reason." 

Kitty giggled and turned another shade of red, making Scott feel a little better about what he was about to do. Well, almost. 

+ + + 

"…voila! Instant virus." 

Scott shook his head. He knew enough about computer programming to see the ease of what Kitty did and he didn't like it. If a child could do this…he shuddered to think what a seasoned hacker with malicious intent could do. 

"You're not going to release that into the system, are you?" 

"Oh, no! _Heck_ no." She hit Copy and Erase in two quick strokes, and the code disappeared. "If I released it the school computers would be down for a week. Or," she said with a small smirk, "only an hour, if Doug and I fixed it." 

"So you're saying we aren't very secure." 

Scott hovered over her screen and Kitty sighed, turning to look up at him. "Well, yes and no. You wouldn't find the backdoor unless you were really looking for it, and it'd take a pretty fair hacker to know where to find it. But once they found _that_...Let's put it this way: Our firewalls wouldn't protect us from _Jubilee_." 

Scott grimaced. "That bad, huh?" 

"Did you _see_ what happened the last time she touched a computer? *Paf* city. Whoever installed the security wanted to keep their eyes on us." 

_Magneto_, Scott thought with a grimace. It had to have been after they installed Cerebro, right when they were getting the school systems online. Lensherr could've simply hidden his codes in the upgrades, and no one would've known. _Bastard_. He'd get Kitty to check the Danger Room sequences later, just in case. 

"So…what about the instructor's files?"

"They're even worse. Yeah, they're password protected, but c'mon. Professor Xavier used a combination of your codenames with the year you graduated from the school! That just makes it too easy for a hacker. And it's just plain stupid to do." 

She bit her lip, her cheeks suddenly tingeing. "Uh, well, I mean, I'm not calling the _Professor_ stupid, he's _definitely_ not. No way. But, er, I…what I mean is—" 

"That's all right, Kitty," Scott interrupted, reassuring her. He massaged his neck thoughtfully. "Tell you what. Why don't you, Doug, and I get together some time next Saturday to update the servers. You can tell me what we need to do to make changes and then, if needed, we'll buy the necessary equipment to keep us on track. Call it penance for hacking into FOH." 

Kitty grinned. "Oh, it's not penance, Mr. Summers," she said, turning back to the screen. "I dream about doing stuff like this all the time."

"As long as you use your powers for good." They both chuckled and he squeezed her shoulder gently. "Go ahead and log out. I'll take it from here." 

"All right. I'll…I'll…um--_huh_," she said quietly. "That's strange." 

"What's strange?" 

"One of Ms. Munroe's folders." Her eyes dark eyes glittered as her finger tapped the screen. "Someone recently downloaded information." 

"What? Someone from the school?"

She shook her head. "It was done _off_ campus, about a month ago. It doesn't look like they dropped any viruses in it, but they _did_ access the files." 

"Can you trace the source?" 

It took a minute of her fingers flying across the keyboard before her shoulders slumped in defeat. "I can't find it. They covered their trail too well." She swallowed. "Um, Mr. Summers? About that time frame…" 

"I agree, Kitty," Scott said softly. A dozen scenarios began playing in his head, and none of them good. "Tomorrow. We've got to start on this tomorrow. Or sooner." 

She nodded and slid from her chair. "I just hope it wasn't one of the bad guys who read it," she said quietly.

_Me too,_ Scott thought, but he didn't say anything. His jaw tightened, firmly set in Leader Mode. "Go tell Doug, but don't give this out to _anyone_ else in the school—and make sure Doug doesn't tell anyone, either. We don't need to set off a panic. " 

"Yes, sir." She paused a little, as if to suggest something, but changed her mind and left quickly.

_Good girl,_ Scott thought. _Hopefully she's innocent enough to not realize that we're _already_ too late._ He waited until she cleared the hallway before sliding into her chair. The rest of what he was about to do he didn't want her to see. 

Bad enough that 'Ro left two weeks ago, he thought, clicking on her folder, but it couldn't be a coincidence that her leaving the school followed on the heels of the most recent download. He typed in her password and viewed a few of the files…and a chill went down his back. They hadn't just downloaded any folder. They downloaded her personal folder. Her _psyche_ folder. And it contained every hang-up, every problem, and every weakness she had, past and present. Whoever took it knew exactly what they were looking for. There were twelve files in her folder, one for each year she'd been at the Institute, and each had been tampered with. Scott exhaled slowly and read one of Xavier's excerpts from twelve years ago: 

_Student: Munroe, Ororo – Personal Notes #12 (CFX). _

_June 24 _

_It has taken time, but Ororo finally opened up to me about some of her past. I had my suspicions, since I had access to her police records, but the records barely skimmed the surface. She reveled in her thieving exploits. Her passion for them showed beneath her calm exterior. I hope the school will replace this identity. Otherwise, I might have to keep track of stolen items throughout the school...._

_She hesitated before telling me the rest of what she'd done. "You may not want me here," she told me. It was the first time that her arrogant facade dropped from my presence, uncovering the frightened child beneath. "Go on," I told her. "Nothing you mention will cause me to reject you." Her eyes watched me for a moment, weighing my words with the truth. "The police records do not show everything." _

_The poor girl lowered her head, unable to voice the words. Instead, she dropped her mental shields...and let me see what she did to several men. Unfortunately I audibly gasped from the unexpectedly violent mental assault. She mistook my surprise for condemnation and nearly left my office in tears. I had to convince her that she merely surprised me. No, I did not like what she had done, but I understood, and she was still welcome to stay. I wonder...had she not acted in self-defense, would my response towards her have changed--? Would it have been a reaction of fear for the school, and for the other children? If unrepentant, the murderess beneath the glacier surface would have been formidable, indeed.... _

_Our talk went well. Brilliance shines beneath her bravado (I have no doubt that once she applies herself she will be one of the most intelligent students here, if not the top student) but she is a very lonely girl. She trusts few but she would certainly give her life for those she trusts. I would hope that she eventually allows others experience her love of life and her exuberance for nature, but she refuses to reach out, fearing that the others will stumble upon the murderous truth of her past life. She fears being hurt again. She needs to realize that the past is simply the past, and that we accept her. Perhaps one day soon she will realize – _

"--how much we truly care about her," Professor Xavier added softly. Scott lowered his head and tapped the desk with his index finger. He wasn't surprised that Xavier had been listening to his thoughts. 

A small, sad frown piqued the corners of the Professor's lips as the sound of his wheelchair entered the server room. "You could have asked, Scott." 

Scott shoved the terminal from him and rose stiffly. "Would you have told me?" 

"Not in so many words, no," Xavier said. He reached out cautiously, but Scott, still furious, recoiled from his touch. "As much as I wished to convince her otherwise, Ororo wanted it this way ." 

"That makes putting her in danger _okay_?" 

"No, it doesn't." Xavier's eyes hardened. He roamed over the computer screen, seeing things that Scott did not. "If I had known the school's server had been breached, I might have allowed you to follow her." 

"Someone planned this," Scott muttered. He let out a breath, allowing the anger to rush from his gut in one quick sound. "And they did a damn good job of it, considering they knew exactly how to set her up. Professor--"

"Say no more," Xavier said quietly. His sad eyes met Scott's at last. "I agree. We must reach her, somehow. Hopefully she will understand the peril, and the reason I had to breach our confidence." 

"I thought she wasn't answering you." 

"She's not," Xavier said, unconsciously mimicking Scott's sigh. "But perhaps she will listen to Logan. If he can reach her first, perhaps she will accept his words and go with him." 

"Pretty big 'perhaps,'" Scott said, raising his eyebrow. "If I were her, I wouldn't trust him." 

Charles stared at him coldly. "I don't see that we have much of a choice. Do you?" 

Scott frowned. No, he didn't. At least, not until he found her himself. Then, by hell or high water, he'd make her listen, if he had to drag her back by her white hair like a caveman to do it. 

* * * 

Ororo's sleep was shattered by a cold voice through her wall. In her sleep, the voice had crested from a lulling murmur to guttural barks, and upon waking she realized it wasn't a dream. She touched the wall softly. Remy was on the telephone, she could hear him. Her fingers caressed the wall as if she could soothe his mind telepathically, but his voice still sounded strained. Hard. As if the streets had stripped his charm and left a shell behind. 

"_Va te faire foutre__._ Eh? Pas mon problème, homme. C'est _votre_ problème. Vou—" he paused slightly. His voice softened, melted, smoothed. Became like silk. Became like twenty-year-old scotch. "Désolé. Un moment." 

The phone was gently laid on its side. A door opened, a floorboard creaked. She turned to her door, seeing his body lazily blocking her doorframe, seeing his freshly tousled hair and rakish smile bidding her good morning like an angelic Catholic choir boy. Well. Perhaps a _naughty_ choir boy. 

"Sorry, padnat. Didn't mean t'wake you wit dat nonsense." 

"It was no trouble, Remy," Ororo said. She unconsciously wrapped her sheet closer to her body, unsure why she suddenly felt so shy. He had seen her naked before, but she was a girl then. And he never seemed quite so close. "Please, don't stop on my account. Finish your conversation."

"Ah, he c'n wait. He's an idiot." Remy's face floundered a little, seeing her bare arm, but he turned to the side and lit a cigarette. "Sorry 'bout dis, chere, but we gotta take off earlier than I planned."

"Oh?" She grabbed the robe on the edge of her bed and quickly wrapped it around her body. He seemed to instinctively know when she was decent and glanced up just as she tightened the belt about her waist.

"Someone's gettin' nosy."

"I see. Where are we going?"

He shrugged and blew a long, lingering trail of smoke from his nostrils. It hung in the air like a thick fog, enshrouding him in gray shadows. "Can't say."

"You don't know?"

"Didn't say dat." He ground the new cigarette beneath his boot and caught her eye. His eyes seemed determined and purposeful. Cold. "You with me, or against me, chere?"

"With you, of course." She rose from the bed and stood inches from his face. "I said I would be with you, despite the dangers. And I always keep my word."

He stared at her a beat longer and glanced over his shoulder, surveying the old cracked window with the diamond crystal pendant. He whispered his words. "A friend of yours been sniffin' around here. I think he don't like the idea of you hangin' out with the likes of me. You willin' to go against him?"

She blinked. She should have expected someone to follow her, but the truth of it hadn't hit until now. Her fairytale week suddenly collided with the cesspool of truth.

His eyes were suddenly boring into hers. She hadn't noticed how hard he was scrutinizing her every nuance while she examined his words. She nodded.

"It's none of their business." The ruthlessness in her voice surprised them both. "I have chosen. Should they choose to oppose me…well, I will explain the best I can. But I will not abandon you, Remy." She held up her pinky. "In for a penny."

The harsh lines around his jaw softened sadly. He hooked her pinky within his and squeezed tightly. "In f'r a pound." He nodded, the decision made. "Hurry up an' get dressed. Soon as I get dis moron off de phone, we're outta here."

"Parfait," she said, and he smiled at her accented Louisiana French.

"Bon."

"Remy," she said, hesitating. He was halfway between his room and hers, and he answered her over his shoulder.

"Oui?"

She slowly began loosening her robe tie. "Who…who was it? Who came after me?"

His next words were spoken from the wall between them, echoing in the narrow corridor. "Mean, tough ol' gator. Kept snarlin' at everybody like some kinda damn loup-garou."

Her eyes narrowed. She wasn't sure if she was furious, or secretly pleased with Xavier's choice. The old man was clever. She gave him points for that. But that was all she would give him.

"Hmm." She sighed softly. "He won't stop until he gets what he wants. Wolverine has an incredible healing factor and claws—"

"I know...we heard 'bout dem pig stickers," Remy said distantly. "Chere, I'm gonna finish dis call. Don't worry 'bout Walkin' Wolfboy. I got it covered."

_ Don't hurt him_, she thought, but didn't say it. 

Of all of them, she worried what Logan would think of her the most. She had the least to lose if he discovered the truth, but he would misjudge the situation. He did not know her well enough to give her the benefit of the doubt. She hated to play the villain with such a recently acquired friend, but if she would, if she had to.

* * *

He glared at the ramshackle building through a halo of cigar smoke. It took threatening three people with unpleasant death scenes to get here, but he found it. Couldn't figure why they were all torn up about givin' him the address. It wasn't like the place was decent. Food smelled good, though.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are," he muttered, fondling the cigar in his fingers. 

Logan had taken it slow after his initial upsets in town but his presence had been noted. He'd kicked up enough of a fuss that whoever he was following probably had some muscle waiting for him inside. No matter. He absently rubbed his knuckles. He knew how to take care of them.

He sighed deeply and shut his eyes. Taking in 'Ro's delicate scent made him pleasantly lightheaded. Sandalwood, flowers, and ozone clung to the perimeter, and...dammit. His eyes snapped open. _Trash_. The town had finally cleaned enough of its garbage that he caught brief hints of her scent wafting in the rougher sections of the town, but it took deep sniffs and he still had to rifle through the stench. Luckily, with patience, he'd found what he wanted. The showdown was this ugly place. It had to be.

Half of him wanted to rush in and rescue her like some lame-ass prince charming. The other half of him, the smarter half, had been watching the building since four a.m. One light went on about four-forty five, and it galvanized his nerves. He was itching for some action, now. Especially after finding out that the danger might have doubled. Xavier contacted him yesterday and told him to be careful, told him that there was more to it now than just getting Ororo to go back home. Something about her being in peril. So? He answered. Someone's always in peril. We're the damn peril police. What else is new?

Xavier didn't answer that one. _Just be careful_, he'd sent. _Ororo doesn't realize the danger, and she may choose to fight you .Try to keep her calm until we arrive._

Think I can't handle her, Chuck?

Xavier smiled through their mindlink. _I don't know. How well can you conduct lightning?_

Logan broke contact with him after that. 

_ "At least I've chosen a side." _Logan grunted. "Yeah, right, sister_._" Here he was, thinkin' she was all pious Miss Perfect, and she wasn't any better than he was. Worse, maybe. He didn't go around pretending to be something he wasn't. He didn't sweep his messes under the carpet. Was that what bugged him about the whole scenario? That she hadn't been honest with him from day one? They were his family, he kept telling himself. He was protecting them. An' one of 'em hadn't been honest and deserved an old-fashioned ass-whupin'. But...that answer wasn't the total story, was it? Why wasn't it? He wasn't sure he wanted the answer.

He looked up again and saw a shadow hover at the window before moving to another room. He'd been careful to remain hidden, but he could feel those eyes watching him. They both knew the other was watching. At this point, Logan didn't care. He wanted him to come. Wanted to vent his pent-up aggression. Summers and Red were supposed to back him up later that morning, but he wasn't about to wait. They were on the move, and he wasn't going to waste time waiting for the Campfire Girls to save the day. Better to keep the trail fresh, then to wait…wait—

He sniffed the air cautiously, suddenly aware of an intrusive scent. "What the _hell_--?"

_ No_, he thought_. No! No way in flamin' _hell_—! _

Logan popped his claws, but the delay in recognizing the scent cost him. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

"Damn, Wolvie. Forgot about me already." 

He spun around and missed his instinct's warning. An additional scent tingled at the back of his mind. His instinct was shouting _Look_ _Behind You,_ but fury clouded his judgment. 

"We end this _now_," Logan spat. 

"Oh, I quite agree," a second voice said. The second voice was the last thing he heard before his mind tumbled into darkness. 


	6. Puppets

**Puppets**

The lab reminded her of something ancient, cold, and foreign—and comical, in an odd sort of way. Copper helixes and ceramic crucibles bubbled over plasma-hot meshes and white flame. But they were _so_ old, like something from B-grade cinema, and one couldn't help but scream, "She's alive!" inside the mind. But she wouldn't say that aloud. Nothing was dared voiced here, apart from the burning experiments which, every so often, punctuated the silence with the noise of snapping twigs. Strips of burning neon and million-dollar scientific equipment highlighted the walls of the dimly-lit laboratory. A genetic re-sequencer stood side-by-side with glass tubes and Bunsen burners. Electron microscopes shared space with antique Jack-the-Ripper scalpels. Books made of human skin held court with computer disks. It was Frankenstein turned sideways, with old world experimentation meeting technological genius. And as much as she traveled between shadows, she did not like this dark, fathomless tomb. It reminded her too much of the man behind the mechanisms. She used the word "man" lightly, though. Essex wasn't much man anymore. Wasn't much human.

"How soon?" The voice purred like a hungry tiger: Deep, rumbling, deadly. 

"Soon," she said, not willing to give him a definite time. He nearly killed her last time she delivered a late shipment. "They left an hour ago. " 

"I see." 

The face remained hidden somewhere here, in the half-darkness--Essex didn't show himself if he didn't have to. She waited a full minute for his response. When she continued hearing nothing but the sighs in the lab, she clung to the slick metal banister and began the trek up the stairs, wanting to get to real daylight as quickly as possible. 

"One more thing." 

She cursed herself for waiting too long. "Yes, Dr. Essex." 

"What of the hindrance?" 

Her forehead puckered as she ran the words through her mind. Which hindrance did he mean? If she didn't answer correctly, he would become impatient, and when Essex became impatient, someone died. 

Her face softened when she finally understood. "We dealt with him." 

"Permanently?" 

She shrugged. "Probably not, from what you told us of him. The move would have killed a normal human--not a mutant with enhanced healing capabilities. We were lucky to circumvent his acute senses. I suspect next time we won't have the element of surprise."

"I agree," Essex said. His laughter came out in halted, hissing gasps, merging with the sounds of the experiments. "We could use another with such skills." 

"Would he come willingly?" 

"Did you?" 

Her fingers tightened on the banister. "No. I suppose I didn't." 

"But you're a willing participant now." 

_Damn _you, Essex_._ "Yes. Of course I am." 

"Good. That's very good to hear." Another bass sigh. "Bring Gambit to me after you meet him and the other woman at the airport. Take the woman into your confidence, explain the plan. Most likely, she is still hesitant. Make her less so. Gain her trust."

"Very well." 

"I can't stress it enough. I will deal with you, if this doesn't go smoothly." 

She swallowed, knowing exactly what that meant. "I won't fail you." 

"Please don't. I have precious little recumbent DNA as it is. You may go now." 

"Thank you," she said, hating the weak words on her lips. She was little more than a plaything to him. They all were. Essex's puppets, one of them had said, before Essex heard him. Before Essex resequenced him for his insolence. 

_This is the worst part of it_, she thought, merging from the tomb into the brightly lit study. The violence she understood. The fighting, the theft, the money, the thrills--well, she liked all of that. She could even tolerate the murder. But not the deception. Not the warping of minds. To turn an innocent into someone like _them_…But that's what he wanted. He wanted mindless, ravenous, killing servants. And whatever Nathaniel Essex wanted, he got. 

* * * 

_Plastic bandages and syringes, hospital metal and antiseptic…dark, cold. Leather. Low voices…Dammit, no! _

**_Logan…Logan, come on, wake up. Logan--! _**

He jerked up growling, claws unsheathed, and Jean stumbled back. 

"Calm down," Scott murmured, putting a strong hand on his shoulder. "It's just us. Easy does it." 

The touch helped bring him back to his senses, and the past visions of torture faded uncomfortably to the back of his mind. He sheathed his claws and glanced at his surroundings, seeing the interior of the X-Jet, and white-hot pain suddenly stabbed him between his eyes. "Dammit," he muttered, cradling his head. The mother of all headaches pounded in his temples, but fortunately his healing factor kicked into overdrive to compensate. _Must be what a hangover feels like_, he thought. 

"Are you all right?" 

"No," he grunted. "But I will be." 

Logan could smell Cyclops' rage just beneath the calm surface. "What the hell happened?" 

He shook his head, trying to clear it, trying to remember. It all came back in a rush and a low growl escaped his throat. "Sabretooth." 

"_Sabretooth_--? Sabretooth was here?" 

"That's what I said, didn't I?" He jumped up from his prone position and leaned against the window, fighting a wave of vertigo. 

"He's dead. He _has_ to be." 

"Well, he sure was doin' a helluva lotta talkin' for a dead man." Logan stumbled again, and Jean moved towards him. 

"Take it slow," she said softly, touching his arm. "You're still not up to moving around." 

"Like hell I ain't." He headed for the door. "That asshole's going _down _this time." 

"Whoa, wait. Slow down." Scott grabbed his shoulder. Wolverine shook him off, but paused at the door, listening to what Scott had to say. "Let's start at square one. Jean and I found you at the rendezvous point, curled up in the bushes. There wasn't a mark on you. How the hell did Sabretooth take you down without throwing a punch?" 

"Because he had a stinkin' _partner_," Wolverine growled. Jean pressed a glass of water in his hands and he downed it in one gulp. "Some chick got me from behind. Didn't see her until it was too late." 

"Mystique?" 

"No. Not Mystique. I know the difference. This one…I dunno. It was strange. There wasn't anything, then her scent just started getting stronger and stronger until – bang – she was all over the place." 

"What, you're saying her smell increased?" 

"No—hell, I can't explain it. Forget it. I didn't see what happened, but it _happened_. Okay? I don't know what she did, but it worked." 

"And worked well, apparently," Jean said. "When we found you, you were unresponsive, yet awake. Almost as if you were catatonic." She chewed her lip. "I think you were the victim of a telepathic attack." 

Both the men glanced up, surprised. 

"Could a telepath do that?" Logan asked. 

"They could…if they didn't care about ethics." 

Wolverine glared at the ground. His features hardened. "All I know is, if 'Ro's in the middle of it, she's in deep shit. Or we are." 

Scott's frown matched Logan's. "She's not here now. I searched every inch of that house, and couldn't get any of the locals to say much. According to them, she left of her own free will with someone called, 'The Devil King.' Could that be Sabretooth?" 

"No way in hell. This 'Devil King' is some kinda crime boss around here. Overgrown Cat Box ain't got the smarts." 

"Fine." Scott sighed heavily, leaned one hand against the side of the plane, and slapped the side of it with his other hand. "Dammit. I _knew_ we should've followed her sooner. _Shit_." 

"We'll find her," Jean said. She squeezed Scott's shoulder before folding her arms, sighing. "If nothing else, we can go back to the mansion and get the professor to search for Sabretooth's mental signature, via Cerebro. From then on, hopefully, the rest will fall into place." 

Scott's lips thinned. Cerebro was hit and miss, sometimes. Truth was, if they couldn't find Sabretooth through it, 'Ro was as good as lost. 

* * * 

_Ororo. I know you can hear me. You must come back, _now_. You're in grave danger— _

_How is Logan? _

_…Ah, you answered! Child— _

_Is Logan all right? _

_Yes, however— _

_Good. Thank you. _

The words had roused her, so she listened and answered them until she received the information she needed. Then, after a pause, she gently strengthened her mental shields and pushed the voice away. She could hear him trying to contact her, sometimes, in that time between sleeping and awake, when her shields weren't as strong as they could be. The act of shutting them out of her life was becoming less painful. Every day her conscience seared a little more. The idea should have alarmed her, but it didn't, strangely enough. Besides, if they had truly cared, they would have made time for her long ago. Not now, when it suited them. 

Her eyes remained closed, but her lips twisted sadly. Was that not the real reason for her running? The absolute truth was remorselessly childish. She was the stable one, the one on which life depended. The rock on whom the children relied. The ear upon which they could lay their secrets, without needing to listen in return. They had taken advantage of her kindness and had given nothing in return. No one expected this of her and, in some small sense, that pleased her. She was not as predictable as they assumed. 

_Ahh, Ororo_, she thought to herself. _You let your childish anger take root and you have found a convenient outlet in Remy. That is all_. 

She knew this. But she could still not give up her freedom and return to the mansion. It was too late; she would have to see this through to the end. May the goddess forgive her. 

"Hey, padnat." 

Remy nudged her gently, forcing her to open her eyes. He was the second reason for staying apart from her teammates: Beauty. Strength. Excitement. Passion. Appreciation and honor. Erotic darkness. Someone who did not take advantage, even when he had ample opportunity. Someone who accepted her for her, not a worshipped icon of perfection and love. Her smile broadened. Now, if only he would _stop_ seeing her as his little sister. 

"Remy," Ororo sighed. She stretched in the airplane seat, unaware that they had already landed. She usually hated flying. The overcrowding, the fetid stink of recycled air and the unnatural hum of metal made her cringe and set off her insecurities and claustrophobia. But this trip had been short, and she had a Prince by her side. His presence helped her sleep. 

"C'mon, time t'meet our contact." 

He was in no-nonsense business mode, and Ororo respected that. It thrilled her, actually. He stretched above her, grabbing their luggage from the overhead bin in one hand and reaching for her with the other. 

"Ma'amselle--?" 

"Why, thank you," Ororo said, taking his hand. 

"Anyt'ing for a lady." 

"Flatterer." 

"Always, chere." 

As they exited the plane, her superior X-Men training placed her senses on high alert. She did not know who would meet them, and neither did Remy. "Don't be too alarmed, chere," he'd told her. "It's just business." She hadn't known what his cryptic words meant, but his face was strained when he said it. He had been visibly tense and pale the entire trip from Louisiana to D.C., and Ororo watched as he slipped two blue pills in his mouth. She didn't ask him about the drugs, but hoped it was nothing serious. At least he relaxed after taking them. 

And now, as she traveled the catwalk, she observed her surroundings with a predator's eye. Someone here made Remy uncomfortable, and the situation could be deadly. Electricity hummed through her and she enjoyed the sensual crackle throughout her body. It tickled her, aching for release, but she would control it until the proper time. _Or_, she thought with a small smirk, _if this person gets on my nerves_. 

"Dere," Remy whispered over her shoulder. "To your left. Leggy femme in the purple duster an' ivory jeans." 

The woman would have stood out in a dimly lit nightclub. Ororo raised her eyebrow--apparently tact wasn't in her repertoire_._ The Asian woman was slightly taller than Ororo, with a bigger, more athletic build, but her _hair_. It was _violet_. And an eye tattoo--? Honestly. Some of the teens she taught didn't have such blatant adornments._ At least I wouldn't have to worry about losing her in a crowd. _

The woman cautiously caught Remy's eye and waited until they passed before falling in step with them. To Ororo's surprise, she linked her elbow in hers and quickened their pace to the baggage claim area. 

"I'm Elizabeth Braddock--Betsy," she said in a surprising British alto. "Good to meet you, Ororo." 

"Likewise," Ororo said, although it was a bald-faced lie. She glanced at Remy but he had fallen silent. "You will have to enlighten me on our situation, Elizabeth." 

Betsy smiled, suddenly. It was both sad and raptorial. "Please call me Betsy. 'Elizabeth' is so formal, and I hate it. But not here, Ororo. Soon." 

"I understand." 

"Tell me about your flight. Did Remy give you any trouble?" 

Remy snorted at this, ignoring Betsy's gentle barb, and the cold look on his face told Ororo that he and Betsy didn't much get along. 

"Uneventful, which is fortunate. I'm not fond of commercial flying." 

"Indeed," Betsy said. She turned her face to Remy, and her eyes sparkled darkly. "As long as it was _uneventful_." 

Ororo heard a stifled growl in the back of Remy's throat, but didn't push the issue. She would uncover their history later. But right now she needed to know more about her friend's enemies. She would discover this Betsy's weakness, and use it to her advantage. Soon, Betsy would tell her all she needed to know about Nathaniel Essex, and this game of cat and mouse would end. 

_AN: All character interpretation subject to author rendering. Eh? Wot? Meaning: I tampered with 'em to fit the story. Is this Essex? Is this Psylocke? Mmmm…couldst be! _


	7. One Step Beyond

One Step Beyond 

_X-gene_…**_stomp,_**_ **stomp**_…_Mendel_…**_stomp_**_, **stomp**, _"Dammit!"_ **stomp**_… 

_Don't you dare. Not one more step, not one **more**… _

Jean Grey clamped her teeth over her highlighter and hunched into to her desk lamp, squeezing the thick book a little tighter in her fingers. She had been mulling Dr. Henry McCoy's theories on mutant genetics for the better part of two months, and _almost_ grasped his first chapter. She could feel the truth of it teasing and testing the back of her subconscious, and sometimes part of the book haunted her dreams – only to be lost when the concept startled her to full consciousness. She had the odd habit of sinking her teeth into impossible doctoral theses and textbooks when frustrated, and the latest developments had her returning to McCoy's studies with a vengeance – but this time, it felt like McCoy suddenly made sense. Jean was almost there, she could feel it. She only needed few more seconds. _If_ _this is correct, _she thought, rubbing her forehead_ and D734's can break from their natural mutancy, then— _

"What's taking him so long?" **_stomp_**_, **stomp**…_

_Come on Jean, think. Ignore it. It's…it's…Damn. _Lost it--! 

"_Enough_, Scott!" 

**_Stomp, st-- _**Scott's leg hung in mid-step. "Wha--?" 

"I almost had it!" 

Scott glared at her as his legs were unnaturally immobile. "You have _no_ right to freeze--" 

"Scott," she growled. Her teeth were clenched as she waved two shaking, pinched fingers in his face. "I was _this close_ to understanding. I only needed --" 

"We made a pact, Jean. We promised _never_ to use our powers against each other, even when furious. The 'count to ten' rule, remember? What the hell's _wrong_ with you?" 

She pursed her lips at the cold fury on his face and shook her head, exasperated. Scott's body stumbled forward as his legs suddenly obeyed their last mental command. "Never mind." She shoved her glasses over her eyebrows and rubbed her forehead. "Do whatever the hell you want." 

"If you wanted me to stop pacing, all you had to do was _ask_. You don't have to control me like your own personal Pinocchio." 

Jean slammed her pen on her desk. "What do you think I was doing for the past hour? This is my lab, _my_ time. You invaded my sanctum and you didn't seem to care that I was in the middle of something before barging in here and marching the merenge like a bull in a china shop. I said _no_ _fewer_ than ten times, 'Scott, it'll be all right. Scott, he'll find her…Scott, please stop pacing, you're giving me a headache. Scott, please go upstairs…' But you wouldn't _listen_." 

"Yeah? Well…" All the steam went out of him at once as he realized how pointless arguing about it was. They were both tired and cranky, and he knew better. Jean needed her own 'power down' time and he wasn't giving it to her. A wry grin played at the corners of his mouth. "Sorry. I got lost in the moment." 

"You _think_?" She slammed the thick book shut and a plume of dust floated around her head. "Trust me. I'm just as frustrated as you are. You pace. I _think_." 

Scott sighed and came behind her, massaging her taut shoulders as a peace offering. "I should've paced in our room. Guess I wanted to vent." 

"Well, go vent to Logan in the Danger Room. I don't think he'd care what you'd say or do, as long as he got to destroy something." 

Scott chuckled. "He probably _has_ destroyed it by now. Kitty helped me replace two motherboards last month because he got a little 'ticked' with one of the Magneto programs." 

"What else is new?" 

"Yeah," he repeated sadly. "What _else_." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Makes two of us." 

Jean's anger evaporated with a long, lingering exhale and the tips of her fingers danced across the fine downy hairs of Scott's arm, putting him in a light hypnotic state. For a few minutes neither spoke, enjoying the comfortable, reflective silence. 

"So?" 

"Hm…?" He yawned. He couldn't sleep when things were off-balance - hadn't been sleeping well in nearly two months. 

"How'd the server adjustments go?" 

He glanced up sharply, fully awake. "How'd you know about that?" 

"I couldn't understand why Doug was so distracted during chemistry class," Jean said. A small smile hugged the corners of her lips. "It's usually one of his favorite subjects. I didn't pry, but he hasn't been with us very long and his shields are noticeably weaker than some of the other children's - he had computers on the brain." 

"How much did he broadcast?" 

"I don't know what it's about, other than a computer breach." 

"Mm," Scott said, casually shifting his feet. She didn't need to worry as much as he did – it wasn't her job – but he knew she wouldn't drop it until she had something concrete to sink her teeth into. 

"Magneto screwed us over. Again. He had a private backdoor into our servers to access all of our information, our secrets, our battle plans – even our practice battle scenarios. He could download when we'd succeed at something, and when we failed. Probably kept pretty good records on our failures." 

"God," Jean breathed. She sat back in her chair and looked at him with frightened eyes. "Is it fixed? Tell me it's fixed." 

Scott shrugged. "According to Doug we won't have any more problems. I trust him. He's quantum leaps ahead of Kitty in the programming department. Glad he's on our side." 

"Thank God for that," Jean sighed. "I don't care about us, per se. We can handle ourselves pretty well. But no one should have any access to the children's records." 

"I agree," Scott said, yawning. "They don't need any sleepless nights worrying about the next big ugly bad guy." 

"Uh, huh. And when was the last time you had more than five hours' sleep?" 

"Last decade," he joked, but she wasn't laughing. "Honest, Jean, don't worry about me. I'll be okay." 

She didn't buy it. "When you start hiding things from me and retreating from me, you're spreading yourself too thin." 

"I'm fine, Jean." 

"Charles will find Ororo," she said softly, soothing his doubts in their mindlink. She squeezed his hand, feeling nothing but cold frustration and exhaustion. "You know more about all of this than I do, and I won't pry. But promise me that you won't go too deep, all right? Promise me…" she looked at him beyond his glasses. Stared directly into his eyes, where only she could see. "_Promise_ me that you'll let her go once you've run out of options. Trust yourself to _end_ it." 

"Jean…" 

"Sometimes you just have to let it go," she pressed. "As much as you'd like to believe the contrary, you _can't_ save everyone." 

He searched his mind for a retort, but found he was too tired to think of anything. Probably was a good idea, though, considering the fear mixed with hot anger in her eyes. "You're right, I can't deny that," he said diplomatically. "But you'll have to trust me. I'll do what needs to be done, when the time comes." 

"You'd better," she whispered. Her eyes searched his sadly, then angrily. "I _mean_ it, Scott. I worry about you when you get like this." 

"Yes, Mom." 

She smacked him on the arm. "Jerk. Go on, get out of my lab and bug Logan a few hours." 

"All right, all right." Scott's grin sobered. "But I'll take a quick peek down the hall to see how the Professor's doing first." 

"It could be hours yet. He'll let you know when he's ready." 

"Yeah, I know. But it can't hurt to check." 

Jean smiled a little. "Glutton for punishment." 

"Of course," he said. He kissed her softly. "I'm with you, aren't I?" 

"Little shit." 

He left the lab with her lingering laughter piercing the troubled parts of his mind. She was right, and he _should_ rest. The Professor would tell him what he needed to know. If he didn't find anything out, then he'd take Jean's suggestion and join Logan in a good old-fashioned brawl – which would keep his skills sharp for the inevitable confrontation. 

But one thing nagged at his conscience_. _ He had subtly lied to Jean, and they both knew it. He could no more abandon Ororo than he could abandon Jean. 

* * * 

Despite being as large as her room at Xavier's, the bedroom felt uncomfortably cramped and carried an aura of chilly darkness. The austere metal walls and utilitarian bed, bookshelf, night table, and desk set sunk into her bones like a heavy depression. This would be her room, her residence. Possibly for the rest of her life. 

"Not much, but we like to call it hell," Betsy said over Ororo's shoulder. 

"Who lived here before?" Ororo placed her satchel on the edge of the bed and waited for Betsy to follow her, but Betsy paused in the doorframe, fidgeting uneasily. 

"A girl who called herself Vertigo," Betsy said quickly. Too quickly. "She left. Wasn't much of a team player." 

Ororo let the strange comment slide and began unpacking her things. She hadn't realized how many things, how many special things, she'd grabbed in her haste. She cradled a beige sweater close to her chest – the sweater Scott had given her, last Christmas. "Tell me what you're doing here, Betsy. I'd like to know." 

"D'you want the short version or the long version?" 

"Whichever you're comfortable with." 

Betsy smirked and finally entered the room, flouncing on the other edge of Ororo's bed. "It's a long story either way. I visited Dr. Essex's clinic in Southampton after a few problems developed due to my mutations. He found a way for me to cope by altering my powers." 

Ororo's hands paused on a picture frame depicting the entire faculty laughing and covered in dirt clumps and mud. They had just lost the, now infamous, "faculty versus students" tug-of-war. Rogue was quite the talented photographer and had snapped the photo right after Mr. Rasputin had given the rope one final, incredible yank. The summer event had been doubly enjoyable with Logan's unexpected appearance. 

"You miss your friends," Betsy said, watching Ororo's fingers caress the frame. 

"They will always be a part of my heart," she said without embarrassment. "I spent my teen years and all of my adult life with them." 

"Must be nice to have family." 

Ororo faced her now. "You have none?" 

"In a way," Betsy said. An ugly smirk spread across her lips. "I have an alcoholic twin brother I haven't seen in years. Last I heard he was married, but still stumbling around in the gutter. Heaven help his other half." 

"I see. Is that why you've stayed here, because you have no one close?" 

Her smile disappeared. "No. Not really. But that's another long story." 

"Never mind, then. I won't pry – we all have our long stories." 

The woman nodded and helped Ororo place her small collection of priceless items about the room. She put the picture in a prominent place, a place Ororo would have chosen herself. "But that's the problem with long stories, you see. No real ending to 'em. Like Remy and me, for example." 

"Indeed," Ororo said. She hadn't expected Betsy to respond to that rift so quickly. "You two seem at odds with one another." 

"That's putting it mildly." Betsy laughed and returned to Ororo's bed, nosily poking through her duffel bag. "We hate each other." 

"But why?" 

Betsy pulled out a long nightgown and wrinkled her nose. "We _must_ go shopping tomorrow. Honestly, Ororo, a _nun_ would have a more revealing nightie." 

Ororo raised her eyebrow and yanked the nightgown from Betsy's fingers. "I was in a hurry and I chose the first thing in my closet. And you won't dodge my question that easily." 

"Hm. I used to be better at avoiding bad questions. I'll have to work on that, I 'spose. " 

"Seriously, Betsy," Ororo said quietly. "You don't have to tell me. I understand if it's a private argument between you." 

"No, s'all right." Betsy stretched out across the bed and rested her chin on her hands. "You would've put two and two together eventually. We used to be lovers." 

Ororo felt Betsy's eyes bore through her back, but the news wasn't shocking to her. She and Remy hadn't spoken in ten years, and he'd hardly been a monk then. In fact, sometimes the only way they survived was by his sexual encounters with lonely 40-year-old women reclaiming their lost youth. And sometimes he enjoyed himself as much as his customers did. 

"I'm sorry it ended badly between you," she replied honestly. 

"Don't be. We literally screwed ourselves when we tried to make it more than sex. We should've remained fuck buddies." 

Ororo hid her smile while smoothing a pair of wrinkled linen pants across the bed. "It's been a long time since I had one of those." 

"_Wot_?" Betsy scrambled to her side as Ororo sighed mournfully and sat on the bed. "_Do_ tell, Miss Munroe. It's been ages since I've had any sex talk with a female friend. I'm starved for it. Tell me what the Xavier men're _really_ like. Like that scrummy bearded fellow in your picture. Tell me all about him." 

"You're awful. There's nothing to tell, really. I'm single. Most of the good bachelors are taken. And besides, we're all too close for anything to happen. It would be like having sex with my brothers." 

"Cop out and a crock. Next reason." 

Ororo giggled shyly. "All right, all right, _no_, I'm not a nun. But I've spend so much time grading papers and helping the children that it's been a long time since I've found much time for myself." 

"Now _that's_ a shame," Betsy said, grinning devilishly. "We'll have to change that. There's a club down the street – " 

"Betsy…!" 

"No, this is a really good one. And the boys are simply wonderful there. If nothing else, they're fantastic eye candy." She rose from the bed and crossed to the door. "Anyway, pencil it in on your schedule. Go on, settle in – just remember, dinner's promptly at six. Don't be late. Essex despises tardiness." 

"Betsy," Ororo started, and Betsy paused at the doorway, sensing the seriousness in her voice. "I'd like to talk to you about Doctor Essex. Among other things." 

"Later, Ororo," Betsy said. Her face hardened. "You can ask me later, and I promise to tell you what I can. My guess is, you'll have other questions for me after dinner. I'm sure of it, in fact." 

She left before Ororo could question her further, but Ororo didn't dwell on Betsy's words. True, she hated not knowing the full story, but Betsy didn't seem the type to lie outright – avoid the truth, definitely, but not lie. Despite her better judgment, Ororo found herself trusting her. 

"What have you gotten yourself into, Miss Munroe." She sighed softly and put her few clothes in the closet and her personal effects about her room, deciding to take a small nap before dinner since. According to Betsy, a few surprises were in store, and she wanted to rest to be ready for them. 

* * * 

_I killed that one slow,_ the mindvoice taunted. It trickled down his spine like nails scraping a chalkboard. _Can ya feel the rush? Gave me a warm feelin' inside. I got off on it, Chuck. Pulled out 'er entrails with my pinky an' ate 'em on a Ritz cracker. Feel what I did, Chuck. It feels like good sex. Wanna see more? You telepaths love ta watch, dontcha? Maybe you wanna see what I'll do to yer 'child', once I get the chance._  
  
Where is she. 

He should have screamed. He wanted to tear his eyes away, to shout bloody murder, but he couldn't. He was mired in this pit of darkness, and the gory images nipped at his sanity with dark, cold pincers.  
  
_Wouldn't ya like ta know. C'mon, look closer. Maybe you'll learn ta like somethin'._  
  
Charles Xavier thickened his mental shields and refused to wander in the murderous caverns of Sabretooth's mindscape. What frightened him, really, was not the monster's taunts, or even his flaunted acts of violence. No. The _change_ scared him. The creature was no longer a flunky, no longer stupid. Someone_ physically_ – not mentally, since he would have detected it – had altered the mutant's mind so much, that he was no longer the same individual.  
  
_I can make her howl – make 'er feel pleasure an' pain an' she'll beg me to stop at the same time she's beggin' for more. Wanna see?_  
  
That won't be necessary.  
  
Charles Xavier pulled out of Sabretooth's thoughts quickly and fiercely. His speed would give the monster a splitting headache, although at this point Xavier wished he could do more than just a headache. He felt as if he should take a long shower. Rarely had he felt a mind so tainted with violence…one that glorified in it so much.  
  
Jean had offered to track Sabretooth at first. She had been practicing with Cerebro in smaller ways and they had both felt his mind would be easier to find, due to his animalistic nature. Xavier was glad he hadn't let her, now. The grotesqueness of Sabretooth's mind could have either killed Jean or driven her mad.  
  
Xavier carefully put the helmet back in its housing and rolled down the metal gangplank, giving thought to a long discarded theory. He had little doubt that Sabretooth's change would've been extremely painful. Usually the mind could not possibly endure such a radical physical change in such a short period of time without several ill effects, and with Sabretooth the truth was doubly so. Someone would've had to circumvent his considerable healing factor. Perhaps this was the reason for the mutant's recent psychopathic outbursts. Why would someone subject themselves to such horror? Stranger yet, how _could_ someone do it?  
  
He frowned as Cerebro's metal doors hissed shut behind him. He had very few conclusions, but one kept scaring him – and the more he thought of it, the more the horror of it dawned on him. His heart dropped in his chest as he seriously considered it.  
  
"No, he's dead! He _has_ to be…"  
  
"Professor?"  
  
Xavier looked up sharply, surprised to see Scott's sudden presence. He quickly covered his emotions without commenting on the outburst. "I've found pieces of the puzzle, Scott, but not nearly enough to find Ororo. And yet…Sabretooth is most definitely a key to this. Of that I'm certain."  
  
Scott caught the hitch in his mentor's voice and fell into step with his wheelchair as they made the slow trek to the elevators. "But?"  
  
Xavier sighed deeply. "It's hard to describe, especially to a non-telepath."  
  
Scott halted at some gleaming doors and slapped the elevator call button with frustration. "Can you at least _try_?"  
  
"I apologize, Scott," the Professor said, smirking. He steepled his fingers to his lips and remained silent until the elevator doors parted and allowed them access. When they were inside and comfortably within its soundproof walls, Xavier caught and held Scott's gaze.  
  
"It's regarding Sabretooth's mental signature. Something…something about him has been adapted, and I don't understand how the change occurred. He seems mentally stronger now. If I'm right… " Xavier's frown deepened. "It will sound rather conspiratorial."  
  
"No, go on. If it can help us find Ororo, we'll need all the leads we can get."  
  
Xavier surprised Scott by unexpectedly hitting the emergency stop. The elevator shuddered briefly, pausing between two floors. "I have a theory. But I'd prefer not to share it with everyone. Not yet."  
  
"But if it's that important—"  
  
Xavier waved Scott to silence. "It _is_ important. But I'd rather not scare the others unnecessarily."  
  
"Great," Scott muttered. "Too late for me."  
  
"And you haven't even heard the best part," Xavier said. Scott felt his limbs grow numb. 

The Professor carefully weighed an idea in his mind. "Yes, I think it's time to share what I know. For all our sakes." 

* * * 

The laughter had started getting on his nerves. 

"Please, Victor. You can stop hiding in the shadows like a common criminal." 

A short grunt echoed throughout the basement "I ain't hidin'. If I were hidin', you wouldn't know it until your body felt it." 

The voice chuckled in the dark, grating on his taut nerves. "That's why I chose you, you know. You're the only one who will follow unconditionally. Because you like the violence." 

"Yeah, whatever. The money ain't half-bad, either." 

"Money, violence. It's all the same to you." 

Victor shuffled uncomfortably. "Didn't come here to argue politics with ya. One-a yer pretty boys're on the take. I'm gonna gut 'im, unless you come up with a better reason." 

The chuckle suddenly turned bitter and a small fireball exploded in the center of the room. Victor shielded his eyes from the bright glare and blinked back dark spots in his vision. 

"I'm no mindless beast with an altered cerebellum. I've had Gambit in my sites for some time now…Quite some time." 

"That nancy-boy's got some pretty tough shit planned," Victor growled. He didn't like anyone assuming he didn't know something, not even his so-called employer. "It's up to you, but I'd take him out before he got me first." 

"Sabretooth. Do not reason beyond your new brain's abilities. Leave Gambit alone and leave him to me." 

"Suit yerself, " Sabretooth grumbled, lumbering back up the steps. "But I ain't goin' down, once he turns. You can clean that shit up yerself." 

"You assume too much," the voice said quietly. Victor's advanced hearing still heard it. "You assume he's a turncoat. You assume he'll run off with the new woman. Well. Let me put a suggestion in your animalistic brain: What if he transcends such a notion? Suppose he's a decoy instead?" 

"Whatever floats yer boat." 

Victor snorted and slammed the door behind him. As long as he got paid and as long as nobody tried taking _him_ down, Essex could play whatever the hell game he wanted. He really didn't care. 

* * * 

They all had their "coping mechanisms" to reassure themselves that they weren't alone with their mutations. The Professor's had been clipping articles on mutantkind and potential mutantkind over several decades. Sometimes the stories dug deeper than the television crews or radio stations dared try. Articles certainly allowed for more of the story - although, Scott thought with a small frown, they were often filled with more bias, too. He just hadn't realized that the Professor kept so _many_ articles. Sure, _some_ were reputable, but most were pure crap. 

"Hm," Scott said, smirking. "'Dog-Boy Ate my Parakeet.' 'Our Haunted Toolbox'…Oh, yeah, true pillars of journalistic integrity, there." 

Xavier chuckled. "I'll agree, most of those are little more than speculative fantasies. Although, occasionally, one or two reports hold true." 

Scott rolled his eyes, but it actually made sense. The oddest mutants ended up in the less reputable rag-mags. The general public wasn't ready to hear about their talents or see their "strange" bodies. 

"I suppose." He flipped the book shut and peered over Xavier's desk. "So level with me. What does all of this have to do with our missing X-man?" 

Xavier nodded to the book. "Do you see a number on the spine?" 

Scott glanced at it. "Twelve." 

"About right. Volume Twelve…Go, oh, nearly to the end." Xavier watched as Scott sighed and flipped a bored finger through the strange, misinformed pages. 

"I don't see what this has to do with—" 

"Wait," Xavier interrupted, peering over the desk. "Go back. One more page." 

Scott obeyed, but raised his eyebrow. He went back one page to a smattering of JAMA and Popular Science magazine articles. "Well, at least they're better than 'Dog-Boy.' " 

"Much better," Xavier whispered. He grabbed the book from Scott and spun it around, scanning the page. "There," he said, stabbing a small blurb with his finger. "That's the beginning." 

Scott read the date on the top of the article and pursed his lips. "This was written before I was born." 

"I wasn't much older than you are now, but someone else was thinking far into the future. Someone a vision that would horrify even Magneto." 

The darker tone in his mentor's voice caused Scott to examine the article very carefully: 

**Double Helix Strand: The End or the Beginning? **

Dr. Nathaniel Essex, esteemed scientist at London's prestigious Westbridge Research Facility, believes many scientists have misguided perceptions about the recent deoxyribonucleic acid discovery. "We have the arrogant idea that DNA is the last word in human evolution," he said at last week's Oxford New Science Symposium. "In reality, we're thinking too small and ignoring its potential for exponential growth. We should be rushing to accelerate its potential, not trying to deconstruct its facets." 

Essex's controversial words inflamed much of the scientific community. 

"Obliterate, more than likely," says Dr. John Corrigan, author of _Understanding the Double Helix._ "What Essex proposes, according to his own research, is nothing less than playing God. His methods, taken to the extreme, will eradicate mankind." 

What exactly are these so-called "controversial" ideas of Nathaniel Essex? Few can grasp his vision - or madness, to some. Essex believes a gene exists to facilitating human potential. He dubs this gene the 'X' gene and sees it as the key catalyst to human evolution. In his opinion, the entire DNA strand is immaterial. Only the X-gene should be taken seriously. 

"Taken to its fullest potential, [the X-gene] will eliminate humankind as much as the first tool-making human eliminated our brutish ancestors. If humankind is to survive, we will need to study this gene. Learn how it functions. Alter it, if need be, so both evolved humanoid and free human can survive in the same environment. 

"I believe that even now there are conscious carriers of the X-gene—perhaps even constant flaunters of it—but our laboratory has been ahead of the game. We've done quite a few tests with this hidden gene. Some results have been nothing short of miraculous, others…dismal failures. Suffice it to say that the ultimate understanding will come once the X-gene becomes something beyond its pre-programmed design…a place where both 'mutated' humanoid and free human can co-exist. We have the technology to circumvent the design and to play with it – to make it so every species benefits, _before_ the inevitable extinction of the other." 

*** 

Scott collapsed back in his chair, somewhat taken aback. "Pleasant customer. I can't tell if he's on our side, or not." 

"Not," Xavier said curtly. He plucked the tome from his desk and filed it on a lower shelf in his bookcase. His voice took on a slower, more reflective tenor. "I went to Oxford for a semester. He was one of the visiting professors, and I was able to hear him speak. Of course he intrigued me--he activated something deep within me that I barely understood myself. And I was his willing disciple, for a time." 

"Until you found out the truth." 

Xavier sighed heavily. "Yes. Until I found the truth. Subsequent reports on Nathaniel Essex's work border on genocide. He knows mutants exist, but he prefers to experiment on us much like Mengele once experimented on the Jews." 

"Now I understand why you wanted to keep this between us," Scott whispered. He unconsciously chewed his bottom lip. "And Sabretooth…are you saying that this Essex experimented on him?" 

"Essex is presumed dead," Xavier said. A quiet hardness seeped into his voice. "From an explosion in his lab, thirty-five years ago. But there are others who want to use us for their own mindless ends." He paused and absently rubbed the spine of a thick book with his thumb. 

"But not someone of his caliber. You wouldn't have brought Essex up if there was someone else." 

"True, and therein lies the contradiction. No one else had the background, the resources, or the pure ruthlessness of Essex. I've watched the papers carefully, and I'm constantly in contact with various government groups across the country. There hasn't been anyone who's come close to his kind of research…and duplicating his work is impossible. His papers are missing, and there are too many gaps in his journals to follow him properly." 

"And you said Essex was dead." Scott crossed his arms, suddenly frustrated and angry. "So tell me. How does someone go about duplicating this dead man's work without having his skills and resources?" 

Xavier's eyes snapped up, chilling Scott to the core. "No one had enough evidence to identify Essex's remains. It's all an assumption. I wish I'd made sure." 

"So…if Essex is still alive, then—" 

"Then he alone would have the ability to cause the change I saw in Sabretooth's mind. Sabretooth was little more than an animalistic construct when you fought him last. Since then his mind – his mental capacity _and_ his core intelligence – have gone _beyond_ natural means. He's still a killer, but no longer mindless. I can think of only one man who would've had the time and resources to do such a thorough job experimenting with Sabretooth's mindscape." 

"Doctor Essex." 

"Yes. Doctor Essex." 

Scott steepled his fingers, unconsciously mimicking his mentor's pose. He didn't want to bring it up, but he had to. The truth affected too many people. 

"You know who else needs to know about this, don't you. You should have told him." 

Xavier wheeled from Scott and slowly put his fingers on one of the books. "I wasn't sure if Essex was responsible, Scott. In my mind he was dead. An impossibility. I had to believe it was another agency. I didn't want to believe that it could've been Essex. I hoped it wasn't." 

"But you were wrong." 

"Only if it's true. We've yet to determine if he _is_ alive." 

"Well, what else do we have? You didn't double check, and it's a pretty safe bet that Essex is the only one, according to what you've told me. _If_ Essex is alive… he could be one of the scientists responsible for Logan's condition." 

"Not could, Scott. He _would _have been the lead scientist." Xavier grabbed a new book and tossed it over to Scott. A small orange tab stuck out from the spine. "Open it. Read where I've marked." 

Scott slowly opened the book, swallowing. "'Scientist dies in Explosion. Nathaniel Essex, senior genetic researcher, died Monday following an unexpected gas main rupture at the Alkali Lake Research 

Facility'--" He shut the book angrily. "You knew all along." 

"About Alkali Lake, yes." 

"You knew more than that. You had this article. But you didn't you tell him everything." 

"I gave him everything I could. But a few people who would have mercilessly come down on the school had I done the legwork myself—had they discovered an additional pair of curious eyes. I couldn't risk anything but the name, for our sakes. Especially after Erik's display. " 

Scott shifted in his chair. "So why now," he asked coldly. "Why give us all this information now, after the fact? Is the situation different simply because of Ororo?" 

"Only in part, Scott," Xavier said quietly. He plucked the book from Scott's lap and carefully replaced it on the shelf. "_If _Essex is still alive, we must make sure that he doesn't repeat his experiments. His augmentations come at an extremely high price, and part of the price often includes slavery, torture, and murder—not just on mutants, but humans as well. Ororo is only a small facet of it. Essex must be stopped, regardless." 

Scott sighed and rubbed his temples, feeling the beginnings of a huge headache. "I don't think he'll take this too well from you. I'll tell him." 

"He'll want to go with you." 

Scott laughed sharply. "Of course he will! Hell, I'd want to, if the positions were reversed. But Charles…I doubt I could stop him from killing Essex. I'm not sure I'd want to." 

Xavier mulled this for a moment before responding. "That's why I'm not a field commander. I expect you'll do whatever's necessary, Scott. I trust your judgment." 

"Second time tonight," he muttered. 

"Sorry?" 

"Nothing," he said, sighing heavily. "I'm just wary of all this misplaced trust in my abilities." 

Xavier's lip quirked sadly. "You'll do fine." 

"Right now, I'm not that worried about me." Scott rose from the chair and headed towards the door. "I'm more worried about Wolverine. And God help Doctor Essex when Logan finds out." 

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